The Souls of Poems
by Chasing After Time
Summary: A kind of character study for Yuri. I saw so much potential and mystery in her, I couldn’t help myself! Warnings for mentions of Self Harm and Suicide.


Natsuki was Yuri's best friend.

Of course, that was what everyone knew. A bond, a pair, each of equal calm and equal intelligence-it came of no surprise when the two burst through the doors of their classes, and later the Literature Club, _always _behind Monika.

They shared things. Yuri had always seemed the object that her friend could project her insecurities into, could dissect and fear for as if she had nothing troubling herself. No, she had watched with a face only half-turned away as she had shown her the knives, each holding their own energy, their own enticing pull that even she had to put them away before she felt the urge to drag them before her own skin.

The urge was obvious, and so an unspoken bond had passed between them-they would forget of their darkness, they would let themselves be themselbes and in turn, be a partnership.

It changed when _he _started coming. Sayori's childhood friend; she could see why she had been so fixed on him, so overjoyed to see him announce his interest in the club. It was a change, and so she had welcomed it as openly as she welcomed the prospect of a distraction.

They had done what the club had always entailed; Monika's eager smiles, eager want for their poems, and what she had soon noticed was also for _him. _The club had taken up her evenings—and in turn, so had he.

Sayori waS(http.s/anexceptionhasoccured)

And whatever mask she had for her poems-however they were praised and she felt a jolt of pride in her chest, a jolt of want just like she had seen in the others, she still felt the mirror. The mirror within her, her soul if there was such a thing. If there was anything to describe it, it would be something taken from the book that she so devoted herself to-a third eye, something new and exciting and terrifying.

_I flicker back. _

And Natsuki. She had started to withdraw. Their equal deal-Yuri's spoken, Natsuki's much deeper, much more than an urge and the grip of a knife, had started to break away to make way for something new.

She had, with no doubt, the knowledge that it was him. That she felt in her something missing, _someone _missing whether it was herself or merely one of those strange deja-vu things everyone talked about. However much she wanted to blame him, for a fall in her otherwise dull life, she felt the urge stronger and forgot any and all anger, paving a way for something new.

He liked her poems. He liked her writing. And her words were her-the deepest form of her self, her ego and her soul. She was now assured that there was one, a bundle of emotions and deep thought seperate from her physical body. If he liked her words, admired her words as they were, then he must have looked at her and saw the music that she heard in her ears whenever she dragged the blade as she dragged the pen.

_The bread, my hungry curiosity. _

Something had changed within her.

_The raccoon, an urge. _

Natsuki, too. There was only a radiant form of stability-one in the uneerie calm of Monika, and another in his smile and hands and words that she hoped would one day match hers in a harmony.

She kept up her facade for as long as she could. Writing. Drinking. Writing poems. Drinking tea. An aching routine, one she had lost her motivation for a long time ago-or maybe just in a few days. Yuri had lost her time, had lost her days, and all there was left was the smile she saw on his face when he read her poems and the pleasure she got from it later on in her memories, in her _fantasies._

Nothing was hers. She wrote _him _poems. She made _him _tea, got up in the morning for _him. _Natsuki had not really spoken to her in a long time-other than snarky remarks, snarky looks and even the occasional hint of fear.

Yuri didn't care. Yuri didn't care.

She had wrote him a poem. All for him.

And he had saw her. He stayed with her, as the other girls had left with their distractions, with anything but him and their eyes that so often fell upon what was _hers._

_"Here's a suggestion; have you considered killing yourself? It would be seriously beneficial to your mental-health." _

**_Natsuki. The one she had trusted-the equal. _**

The blade in her pocket seemed to whisper even above her, above her and through her.

"äłł ï ŵāñt tø dö įš łōøk åt ŷöū"

So she looked. She looked and waited, the other girls, the other girls giving him words, their words when he was owed better, much better than the souls they do gladly handed to them with ink and paper.

Jealousy was not even rooted in her anymore-programmed, she could say. Her blood coarsed through her and did not scream for it to be only her, for the world to crumble in the place of where she was if only it would all have ended with acceptance and want.

It was better than the smooth glide of the pen, of the blade as she dragged it through her wrists and watched in silence as the blood sat and then dried, so much against the skin that there was only blobs against a canvas, art incomparable if it was not matched to this feeling.

"I'm addicted to you."

Addictions, addictions. Natsuki had once called it an addiction-when had she said that? Who had she said it for? Was it for Yuri, or her father on behalf of the way he touched her?

"It feels like I'm going to die if I'm not breathing the same air as you."

Was he smiling? Was he the same?

"But if it feels so good..."

Her blood, coarsing, screaming his name and conjuring with it her very soul.

"Then why does it feel more and more like something bad is going to happen."

Even the prospect of darkness, of what would happen if she pressed her blade down, was no longer terrifying. If it meant she could feel as she did with no release, no fall, she would plunge her knives in her own chest and let him watch her bleed out.

She had often thought about killing, had often thought about the power she would feel. The responsibility of someone else. In all that, she had never quite considered just how much responsibility she held over herself.

"Tell me. Tell me you want to be my lover. Do you accept my confession?"

The words did not register, even as her blood and her head and her entire being careened for their sweet sound. Perhaps an answer as not needed, that words could not express what she wanted and what he wanted in return. No, all she felt was that joy, amplified tenfold like the presence of the knife in her pocket, the glint of its edge and the sharpness, ever the sharpness.

Words could be more sharp than knives ever could be.

_'Fresh blood seeps through the line parting her skin and slowly colors her breast red. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. The images won't go away. Images of me driving the knife into her flesh continuously, fucking her body with the blade, making a mess of her. My head starts going crazy as my thoughts start to return. Shooting pain assaults my mind along with my thoughts. This is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. How could I ever let myself think these things? But it's unmistakable. The lust continues to linger through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased tension experienced by my entire body. Her Third Eye is drawing me closer.'_

Poems are but words and souls. That is what she supposes she is now-even as she no longer exists, the memories of the words and the ink flowing free still remains, somewhere, as she does. A void for all lost things.


End file.
